Ayesha groaned, and the hand on hers tightened.

She went to speak again, if only to ask the simple question, ‘How can I go on?’ But she found the words wouldn’t come. She breathed in, ready, but her throat had closed and her mouth felt slack. She shook her head, and found she was staring at Maria’s tea, which had hardly been touched. Seconds passed, and the silence stretched – and there were no more words worth saying. The Filipino woman had said things she had needed to hear, and that was enough. The café was busy, and there was a buzz of chatter. There was a platform announcement, halting and semi-audible, and someone was rolling a suitcase across the tiled floor – just everyday, constant noise.

It was so loud. She would never make herself heard over the top of it.

‘I must go,’ she said.

She pulled herself together and stood up. The hand slipped from her wrist, and Maria nodded and smiled.

‘I really hope you have a good holiday.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Maria. ‘And thank you for looking after my things.’

‘I’m sorry I told you to get off the train. You know which one you’re getting now?’

‘I think so. Burnley.’

‘That’s platform two. Don’t get confused by the different Burnleys – you want Burnley Manchester Road, yes?’

‘Yes. Platform two?’

‘Over the bridge.’

She was standing, and their hands came together for the last time. The next moment, Ayesha had the guitar under her arm and her bag over her shoulder. She went through the automatic doors. She went up the ramp to the exit, and paused a moment to retrieve her ticket. A guard glanced at it, and let her through, and suddenly she was amongst the taxis, heading up the slope to a bus stop at the top. The bus she needed was due, and she saw it at once: it was stuck in the heavy rush-hour traffic, indicating left.

She showed the driver her pass. She took a seat at the front, knowing that in thirty-eight minutes – if she stayed on the bus – she would be home. She had to stay on the bus, and get off at the right stop. She had to walk up the street, and press the doorbell. Those were the things she had to do, and if by chance she saw a young boy in a black blazer, she would not look away. She would look at him.

It wouldn’t be Kristin, but she would try to smile.

EAST

18

Maria went over the bridge to platform two.